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Starring Kristen Stewart, Dakota Fanning and Michael Shannon. Written and directed by Floria Sigismondi. At major theatres. 14A

In the pantheon of serious (read: snobbish) rock criticism, the Runaways ranked just below the Monkees and just above the Banana Splits.

This is to say these 1970s L.A. teen screamers weren't taken very seriously at all.

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They have yet to be inducted into the Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame (although ABBA made the cut this year), and it's taken 31 years since their last power chord sounded for the band members to rate their own major motion picture.

But The Runaways, written and directed by Toronto's Floria Sigismondi, makes a compelling argument about overlooked talent and under-appreciated influence (Bangles, Bikini Kill, etc.). The movie also, ahem, rocks.

It reveals alchemy that continues today: the transformative power of three chords and an attitude not only made serious jam-kickers out of Runaways frontwomen Cherie Currie and Joan Jett, it also worked wonders on Dakota Fanning and Kristen Stewart, who play them in the movie.

It's something of a shock to see sweet li'l Dakota rocking the mic as the face-painted and corset-clad lead vocalist Currie, and also following her well-documented (if also clichéd) descent into sex, drugs and rock-induced despair.

She evokes the deceptive angel-face of Elvis '56 while simultaneously summoning the leather-wrapped sneer of a Keith Richards or Sid Vicious.

Sigismondi bases her screenplay on Currie's tell-all tome Neon Angel: The Cherie Currie Story, which inevitably, and regrettably, leads The Runaways into family melodrama about Currie's drunken dad and jealous twin sister.

Before that, though, it's a highly entertaining lesson in Rock Godhood 101, as the nascent Runaways get put through the ropes by their producer-cum-svengali Kim Fowley (Michael Shannon, gloriously showboating), who reckons he's found the equivalent of Charlie's golden ticket with his jailbait jukebox shakers.

Sure, there were female rockers before the Runaways – Janis Joplin, Grace Slick and Jett's idol Suzi Quatro come readily to mind – but they all had male musicians providing the heavily artillery. Fowley's plan was to make punks out of these princesses, teaching them not only the essential three chords but also how to dodge beer cans hurled by sexist knuckleheads (which makes for one of the film's most entertaining scenes).

"Men don't want to see women anywhere unless it's in a kitchen or on their knees," he thunders to his charges, overstating the general male attitude of the 1970s but getting the main point across nonetheless.

Multi-media artist Sigismondi displays a fine sense of time and place and an eye for the telling detail in her feature filmmaking debut, which begins with the roadside SPLAT! of 15-year-old Currie's first drop of menstrual blood.

The parallel stories of Bowie-obsessed suburban dreamer Currie and hard-edged loner Jett converge into the pumps-to-platforms rise of the Runaways from house-party novelty act into stadium shakers and radio hitmakers ("Cherry Bomb"), culminating in a riotous 1977 tour of Japan that came very near the band's explosive end.

It's curious how little attention Sigismondi pays to the other members of the band, particularly Sandy West, the drummer and co-founder, and Lita Ford, lead guitarist. There is also nothing but an end-note credit about Jett's post-Runaways success as leader of Joan Jett & the Blackhearts, a group arguably more deserving of rock hall honours and its own movie (with Stewart once again playing Jett, hopefully).

But Fanning and Stewart are the deserving stars of the film, nailing every last look and lick, holding their own even as Shannon savvily attempts to nick every scene.

And as Sigismondi and Jett have been quick to point out, The Runaways isn't a band biopic, it's a story about the corrosive allure of rock 'n' roll that also happens to tell part of the story of an influential female rock band. To this we can say rock on and ch-ch-ch-check it out.

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